Loud Moments

There’s something about that last argument we had that still stays with me—but not in a heavy way anymore. More like a quiet reminder of how far we’ve come, and how much we’re still learning.

I think about how loud I was, how my words came out all at once, unfiltered and overwhelming. Not because I wanted to hurt you, but because I didn’t know how else to express what I was feeling. I’ve never really been good at handling emotions when they get too big—when I’m hurt, or angry, or just mentally exhausted. My instinct has always been to either keep it in or let it explode. And that day, it was the latter.

But even in that moment, there was a small part of me hoping—sana ito na yung last time na magalit ako. The last time I’d be that loud, direct and straight. The one who sounds harsh, who feels too much all at once, and sorry may not be enough. 

What feels different now as compared to years back, I don’t feel as afraid to express myself anymore. Not because everything is suddenly easy, but because I feel like I have space. Space to be honest with what i felt, even when it’s uncomfortable. Space to say things out loud without immediately worrying that it will end us.

And you made that space.

You didn’t shut me down. You didn’t fight fire with fire. You let me say what I needed to say—even the messy parts. And somehow, your simple questions stayed with me more than anything.

“Wala ba talaga akong pagbabago?”
“Still learning on this.”

Those didn’t feel defensive. They felt sincere. And it calmed me in a way I didn’t expect. Kasi all along, ang gusto ko lang naman is to be understood. Kahit simpleng, “It’s okay, babs… next time ganito nalang ha”—it makes such a big difference. It softens everything, it changes everything. 

You’ve always known my story, the parts of me that were shaped by things that weren’t easy. And maybe that’s why what I need now isn’t complicated. Love is there, I know that. But gentleness? That’s what really heals something in me.

And lately… I’ve been appreciating of what we had, what things turn out to be after the hard argument. 

It’s actually funny to think about how we don’t argue the way we used to. How things feel calmer, lighter, though its just days pa, but i am still hopeful. There are moments I catch myself overthinking—what if this is too peaceful? what if you get bored? But I’m learning to quiet that voice.

Because this kind of peace? It’s something I want to keep. I want to hold on everyday. To be better in everyday. 

This is the kind of space where I get to grow, to write again, to slowly understand myself more—and to let you see that world too. We’re both adjusting, both learning, both figuring things out as we go. Kahit sabihin na mas “experienced” na tayo in life, when it comes to us, parang back to zero talaga. And that’s okay.

Siguro ngayon, my prayer is simple.

That we continue like this—steady, growing, understanding. That when things get uncomfortable, we talk about them without turning them into fights. Na hindi kailangan maging masakit para maging totoo.

Na we keep choosing to be gentle with each other.

Because I’m starting to realize…
love doesn’t always have to be intense to be real.

Sometimes, the kind that feels calm, safe, and a little lighter—
that’s the one worth holding on to.

Pressure and growth

Yesterday offered a quiet but meaningful reminder of what it truly means to grow into one’s role.

During a conversation with our COA auditor, she casually asked, “How was the exit conference?” I found myself responding, perhaps more candidly than expected, “Ma’am, I ended up eating a pint of ice cream after that.” It drew some laughter, and in that moment, it became clear that the tension we experienced during the conference was something shared on both sides.

The exit conference itself carried a level of pressure that was new to me. It was my first time participating in that setting, and the presence of our boss added a layer of seriousness that shifted the dynamic. In hindsight, I even missed introducing our boss—something I would normally not overlook. It was a small detail, but one that reflected how focused and, admittedly, overwhelmed I was at the time.

For nearly three hours, I was fully aware of the weight of the discussion—every question required careful attention, and every response carried responsibility. When a particular question was raised regarding the process, it underscored a realization I had not fully encountered before: this was no longer just about completing assigned tasks. It was about accountability in a more direct and visible way.

I have been accustomed to the steady rhythm of fulfilling my responsibilities, confident in doing my part. However, this experience highlighted that there are moments when the role expands—when one is expected not only to perform tasks, but also to stand by processes, decisions, and outcomes. It was a valuable, if somewhat humbling, experience.

After the conference, I took a brief pause. For about fifteen minutes, I stepped away from calls and messages, allowing myself to decompress. That simple act—sitting quietly and finishing a pint of ice cream—became a way to process the experience and regain composure before returning to the demands of the day.

Reflecting on it now, I recognize that I am still in the process of learning. There are areas where I can improve, and situations that will continue to challenge me. At times, it may feel like I am still finding my footing, but I see that as part of the development that comes with new responsibilities.

What I take from this experience is not just the pressure of the moment, but the opportunity it presented. It reinforced the importance of preparation, presence, and clarity in communication. More importantly, it emphasized that growth does not happen all at once—it is built gradually, through experiences like these.

Moving forward, my goal is not simply to give my best in isolated moments, but to improve consistently in the work that I do. Each experience, whether smooth or challenging, contributes to that progress.

Yesterday may have been demanding, but it was also instructive—and for that, I am grateful.

Between Deadlines and Dreams

My Facebook timeline has been unusually busy with graduations lately. I find myself scrolling through photos of old friends—some finishing their degrees, some finally walking the stage after years of juggling work, family, and studies. And every now and then, I pause a little longer than usual, because I see pieces of myself in them.

I used to live that life too.

There was a version of me that was constantly in motion—teaching, attending graduate school, pursuing my doctorate, working full-time, and still trying to show up fully at home. Everything all at once, like I was running multiple lives in a single day and somehow expected to do them all well.

I remember Fridays vividly. After work, I would rush to the bus terminal just to get home by 7 or 8 PM. I’d sleep for maybe three hours, then wake up around 11 or 12 midnight, already preparing for Saturday classes. Assignments were always waiting, and most of the time, my “research time” existed in the in-betweens—between exhaustion and deadlines, between responsibilities that never paused.

There were even days when I was teaching at 9 AM while simultaneously attending my graduate school class online at 8 AM. I don’t even know now how I managed that overlap. But I did.

That was a life I once couldn’t imagine surviving. Yet somehow, I did more than survive—I learned how to balance it all. Time management became second nature. Discipline became survival. And somehow, I kept going.

Then came 2024 to 2025, and everything changed.

I had to let go of teaching. I was unable to finish my dissertation because life demanded more than I could give at that time. Work became heavier, travel became constant, and while I genuinely enjoyed the movement of it all, I also quietly lost something I used to hold closely—my academic rhythm.

I tried twice more. Two semesters of attempting to finish my doctorate. And twice, I fell short. Not because I didn’t want it, but because the version of me who once thrived on that kind of pressure no longer felt the same.

I miss that. 

I miss sitting down with my laptop, the background filled with instrumental music from YouTube—the same ones I used during Pomodoro sessions. I miss the noise around me while still being able to focus deeply. I miss reading without urgency, researching without the constant pressure of office deadlines chasing me.

Now, work deadlines feel heavier in a different way. Follow-ups, revisions, urgent requests—it’s all fast, all demanding, all rushing. And sometimes, I find myself missing the kind of stress that came from school, because at least then, it felt like I was building something that was mine.

Still, something in me is slowly gathering strength again.

I am beginning to consider pushing my doctorate once more—not in Cagayan de Oro this time, but here in Ozamiz City. It feels like starting over in an unfamiliar chapter of a story I thought I had already paused indefinitely.

But maybe that’s exactly what I need.

A fresh beginning. A quieter space. New connections. A different rhythm of life that might finally allow me to continue what I once started. I know it will not be easy. I know I will need support—from loved ones, from patience, and from whatever strength I still have left to give.

But I am learning to believe again.

I believe that nothing is ever truly wasted. That even the pauses, the detours, and the almosts are part of something bigger being written. And maybe, just maybe, this delay is not a failure—but a redirection.

If I am meant to be here, then I will begin here.

And if everything aligns the way it is supposed to, then maybe next year, I will finally be the one holding that doctor’s cap—not as someone who rushed to get there, but as someone who arrived through every version of herself she had to become along the way.

Soft in the Ways That Matter

 There are so many things I never say out loud.

The long trips, the effort of showing up, the patience in understanding, the quiet adjustments made in between the chaos—none of it goes unnoticed. I see it. I feel it. I carry it with me, even in the moments I struggle to express it. Every little thing done for this relationship has been seen and has been acknowledged, even in my silence.

I’ve never really experienced this kind of love before. Not in the way I understand it now. Not in the way I’ve come to need it. This kind of love—steady, persistent, sometimes imperfect, unconventional—is the kind I didn’t even realize I was waiting for. It may not look like what the world expects love to be, but in it, I find something rare: I find myself. 

Because in you, I found someone who stays. Someone who doesn’t walk away when I’m angry, when I’m difficult, when I’m overwhelmed. Someone who catches me when everything inside me feels like it’s falling apart. And that kind of presence—it feels like family.

I learnt what family truly meant in one of the hardest moments of my life. When my mom died, it was just us. No one else. No extended hands, no comforting crowd—just me, my sister, and my father. We didn’t always get along. We fought, we disagreed, we created distance just to survive the heaviness. But we stayed. We accepted each other in our worst, in our most broken states. And that’s when I understood: family isn’t about perfection—it’s about staying, even when everything is ugly.

And somehow, I found that same kind of staying in you.

This—what we have—it’s real. It’s not always easy. In fact, it’s been heavy. This past year wasn’t light or simple; it was full of learning, unlearning, adjusting, and growing pains. We argued; we clashed, sometimes like kids trying to figure out emotions too big for us to carry. But even then, we kept choosing each other. Again and again.

And that choice—the quiet, continuous decision we make to choose each other—will never be something I take for granted.

I know I can be hard. My words can be sharp, my silence even sharper. I’ve spent so much of my life holding things in, suppressing what I feel just to keep the peace, just to survive in a world that already feels too loud. But I don’t want to be that person anymore—the one who keeps everything, who keeps love unspoken.

There are so many hurts I never showed, so many feelings I buried just to avoid conflict, just to keep things quiet. But love like this deserves honesty. It deserves to be felt fully, even when it’s messy, even when it’s uncomfortable.

And so here I am, trying—slowly—to be more open, more real, more present.

Because I am grateful. Truly, deeply grateful.

Even if I don’t always show it in the usual ways. Even if I seem nonchalant, distant, or quiet. My love just speaks a different language. It shows up in the way I stay, in the way I try, in the way I keep choosing even when it’s hard.

I may not always be soft with words, but I am soft in the ways I hold us together.

I may not always be openly sweet, but I am sweet in the way I remember, in the way I care, in the way I never stop believing in what we have.

And maybe that’s my version of being “mushy”—not in grand gestures or constant reassurances but in the quiet, steady ways I love you every day.

This love we have—it’s rare. It’s real. And despite everything, despite all the imperfections, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not Asking for Much

What makes loving someone so difficult? I don’t think it’s the person—it’s the situation around you both. You can try your best to understand, but if the other side isn’t willing to meet you halfway, things start to feel one-sided.

Lately, it’s been exhausting. I’ve found myself questioning what’s wrong with me—why, even when I give so much, it still feels like I’m not enough. Why does it have to hurt this much just to be heard or understood?

I live simply. I don’t ask for much, and I try to avoid unnecessary complications. When something makes me uncomfortable, I say it honestly. But being direct doesn’t always get through to people, and at some point, it stops feeling worth it to keep explaining myself over and over.

And whenever I try to show the parts of me that are soft, the parts that make me vulnerable, things somehow become even harder to understand. Even when I face situations I’m not comfortable with, hoping it might meet somewhere in the middle, it still ends up going a different way. Why is it so hard for people to be kind, when kindness doesn’t cost anything? Why is it so difficult to understand, when all I’ve ever tried to do is explain myself and ask to be understood, even just a little?

I’ve caught myself asking, what the hell is wrong with me—but deep down, I know it’s not that. I value myself enough to know my worth. I shouldn’t have to constantly question it or stress myself out just to beg for understanding. Sometimes, even something as simple as “it’s okay, no worries” can make all the difference—far more than sarcasm ever will.

I think I’ve reached a point where I’ve had enough—enough to know I can stand on my own. I’ve always been independent, and I don’t rely on anyone. Maybe that’s why I’ve gotten used to being misunderstood, even hurt, to the point that I barely recognize what it feels like to be genuinely loved or cared for anymore. Everything seems to come with conditions I’m not even comfortable with.

Just some thoughts for today.

A Quiet Return: 15 years in Heaven

I went to your grave, and for the first time in a long while, I just stayed there… praying. It felt like it had been so long since I last stood in front of you like that. And in that moment, everything came back — not just the memories, but the feelings I thought I had already learned to carry.

The day you left us.

How I saw it.

How it felt.

I can still remember the moment the doctors and nurses declared your time of death. Everything stopped, yet everything continued all at once. And in that very second, the only thing I asked myself was: “Will the values my mother taught us be enough for us to go on with life?”

I stayed with you.

I was there in the elevator, standing beside you, your body covered in a white cloth. No one really knew what I was feeling in that moment. It was just me and you, going down floor after floor, until we reached the basement — where the funeral home would take you away.

I was there.

I was beside you.

I wanted to hug you. I wanted to hold you one last time. But I held myself back. I suppressed everything — every emotion, every tear — because I believed I had to be strong. I was the eldest. I was supposed to be the tough one.

But the truth is, I didn’t understand how to break.

I didn’t know it was okay to cry.

So I didn’t.

Instead, I convinced myself right away that it was better this way — that you deserved peace rather than a life of suffering, pain, and struggle. I accepted it, even if a part of me wasn’t ready.

And now, standing here at your grave, watching everything come full circle, I realized something painful: I went through all of that alone.

I had no one beside me in that moment.

Not family. Not relatives. Not friends.

Everyone thought I was strong enough. And maybe I was — but they didn’t see the part of me that was breaking. They didn’t see that in that moment, I lost the only person I truly had.

Today, as I stood there again, I prayed.

I asked why it still hurts this much.

Why it’s so hard to be understood.

Why life feels so heavy sometimes, even when I’m trying my best to move forward.

I looked at where life has taken us now.

My sister has her own family, and soon another life will be added.

Papa… we never really became better after you left.

And me — I’m still here, breathing, living, surviving.

I prayed not just for you, but for myself too.

I asked for permission to live.

To move forward.

To choose a life that may not be understood by everyone — a life that is unconventional, uncertain, but real to me.

I don’t need much.

I just need the love, understanding, and support that I’ve been quietly longing for.

Life is uncertain.

At 60, you left us, and we were left with nothing — not even financially. We had to start from scratch. We struggled. We fought. We broke in different ways.

But slowly, by God’s grace, we learned to accept.

We learned to continue.

We learned, somehow, to live again.

And maybe… just maybe…

this is what you were preparing us for all along.

Today, I offer my prayers for you — just like I do every day.

We whisper your name in our prayers, Mommsy in heaven, holding on to the love you gave us and the strength you unknowingly planted in us.

You may be gone, but everything you taught us is still here.

And I am still here — trying, healing, and learning how to live with both love and loss.

Happy 15th in heaven, Mommsy.

I miss you more than words can ever hold. 

When Holy Week Comes, I Remember

Every year, when Holy Week approaches, something in me grows quiet. The dates change, the routines shift, but the memory remains fixed—unchanging, steady, and deeply personal. No matter how much time passes, I am brought back to the Holy Week of 2011.

Even before that week, there were signs I did not fully understand then. I remember overhearing my mother speaking to an old friend over the phone. Her voice carried a kind of urgency I had never heard before: “Please, ayaw ninyo pasagdi si Larrah… this child of mine is not a talky person. She doesn’t say anything. But when she does, it means something is wrong—she is hurting.”

At the time, I didn’t know how much weight those words would carry.

I was not in a good place in those days. I was overwhelmed—by fear, by anxiety, by emotions I couldn’t name, much less share. I kept everything inside. I thought strength meant silence.

Then came that night.

My mother struggled to breathe and called for us—my sister and me. Her words were clear, even in distress: “Take care of each other. Do not let each other fall. If one falls, carry the other. Especially you—you’re the eldest. Duha ramo. Wala nai lain.”

Those were the last words i heard. 

Hours later, we rushed her to the hospital. I remember running out to the highway, searching desperately for a taxi. The hospital was only minutes away, yet that night it felt impossibly far. Time stretched. Fear grew louder with every second.

When we arrived, everything happened so fast. She collapsed. Her skin turned blue. The doctors rushed her into the emergency room. I stood there, stunned, as they performed CPR. When the doctor asked for permission to intubate her, something inside me broke—but I couldn’t let it show. I was the one inside the ER. My sister was crying. My father was holding her. And me—I stood there, gathering every ounce of strength I didn’t know I had.

She was moved to the ICU. And then came the waiting.

We had no money, no financial safety net. Staying in the hospital was not an option. My father said something that sounded practical, almost protective: “Unsa man ang mautro kung mag stay ta didto? We are not doctors.” And so we waited from a distance—coming and going, holding on to updates, hoping for good news that never quite came.

I remember standing outside the ICU, watching from afar. I wanted to be close to her, but I felt paralyzed by everything I was carrying. I told myself I didn’t have the right to fall apart—that my role was to be strong for everyone else. So I swallowed everything.

Instead of tears, I found small ways to cope. I prayed quietly that the nurses would take good care of my mother. And when I saw that they did, I asked my sister to buy food for them—a simple gesture, the only way I knew to say thank you when we had nothing else to give. When I handed it over, I asked for the nurse’s name. It reminded me of Saint Michael the Archangel (Michael Angela, not sure) —the same angel my mother had always been devoted to. It felt like a quiet reassurance, something I held onto in the middle of uncertainty.

Then came later midnight i think, that changed everything.

A knock on the door—three hard knocks. A phone call. A nurse asking us to come to the hospital, without explanation. We rushed there, already knowing, even before it was said.

Inside the ICU, I saw them trying to revive her. CPR. Defibrillator. 1, 2, 3 or more times reviving. Urgency in every movement. Then the doctor turned to us and said words no one is ever ready to hear: “Talk to her. Let her go.”

My sister looked at me, almost pleading, almost angry: “Kausapin mo na si Mommy. Sabihin mo na mag-aaral ka ng social work—that’s all she wanted.”

So I did.

I spoke, even when every word felt heavy. And minutes later, she was gone.

I remember calling our relatives afterward. My voice trembled, but my eyes stayed dry. Even in that moment, I held everything in. i was quiet, my heart almost collapsed but i have to stay still, strong, alone. 

Years have passed, but some things never fully leave you. The sound of a sudden knock still unsettles me. The memory of that night still finds its way back, especially during Holy Week. Healing, I’ve learned, is not always complete. Sometimes it comes in fragments, in quiet realizations, in the spaces where pain and acceptance meet.

My sister and I rarely talk about that time—about who we were then, about how we carried it. But in the way we understand each other now is a lot better, in the effort we make to give what we once lacked—time, patience, understanding—I believe there is healing there.

Not loud, not perfect, but real.

And maybe that’s what Holy Week has come to mean for me—not just remembrance of suffering, but the quiet, ongoing work of carrying love forward, even after loss.